


a flood of blood to the heart

by phollie



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: M/M, Mild Smut, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phollie/pseuds/phollie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their bodies sigh together. The dark sky mumbles with faraway thunder; the air vibrates with quiet, tense power.</p>
<p>"You’re a bit of a hurricane yourself, Gil," Oz whispers against the curve of Gilbert’s ear.</p>
<p>[Ozbert, post-canon, brief smut.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	a flood of blood to the heart

::

**a flood of blood to the heart**

::

          "When I first moved into this town," Gilbert says, "I used to wish a hurricane would rip through here and tear everything apart. Including me."

            Oz is watching Gilbert's lips move as he talks, lingering very close to the rim of his coffee mug. They are both standing at the window of Gilbert's apartment; it's open, letting in the summer rain. The heat and the mugginess of the season has Gilbert in short sleeves, a rarity. One sleeve is tied off in a neat little knot to cover his amputation, but his intact arm is toned and pretty and Oz would be watching that as well if he weren't so invested in staring at his mouth instead.

            "I really hated it here," Gilbert says with a soft, loving smile. "I hated everything about this place. I used to think the most violent things." His eyes are bright, his face dark. His hair has gotten longer, falling a little past his shoulders now; he has to flick his bangs out of his eyes every few moments, and Oz figures he should probably help him out and give him a haircut, but he always has a way of changing his mind when he reaches out, as he does now, to touch the soft curls with deft fingertips, the movement natural and unplanned.

            "Why did you hate it?" Oz asks, touching Gilbert's hair, watching his mouth as he breathes and speaks.

            "Too many reasons," Gilbert says with a little shake of his head. Raindrops fall onto his shoulders. "The people who owned the flat above mine were always dropping things. The people below me walked too loudly. Sometimes they played the violin late at night for some mystical reason. Dogs barking in the streets. Cats in the alleys." Gilbert takes a prim sip of his coffee, staring out the window with passive eyes and pouted mouth. Oz vaguely thinks he looks like Vincent when he makes that face and he wonders if Gilbert knows how much they truly do look alike as brothers.

            "But most of all," Gilbert says, "it was because you weren't here."

            He tips his head into the touch of Oz's fingers and makes the quietest of sounds. Oz watches all of him now, every relaxed line of him that moves so perfectly into the next, his body like water and fire and everything all at once. Oz doesn't know when his thoughts became that poetic but Gilbert's presence here by the window drags the thoughts clean out of him, touched with an honest heat that makes him shake in very fine, very light tremors.

            "I'm here now," Oz says, because he feels like it needs to be said even if Gilbert already knows it. And then, maybe because he himself needs to hear it, he says, "I'm not going to leave you behind again, Gil."

            Gilbert looks at him out the corner of a lidded golden eye. His long eyelashes remind Oz of dark little feathers. Oz feels his face heat up. "What?" he asks. "What's that look for?"

            "Nothing," Gilbert says with a breath of a laugh. "I just like to hear you say that. Feels nice."

            There's a sleepy smile hanging at his mouth and Oz wants to kiss it and so he does, clumsily, gently; Gilbert takes it with ease, leaning forward to kiss him back, mouth open and warm. They never announce these sorts of touches, they just happen. They always just happen, sometimes in the middle of sentences, the middle of thoughts.

            "I know," Gilbert says in the middle of another kiss. "I’m not leaving again either."

            "Don't drop your coffee," Oz says stupidly, winding his fingers through the mess of Gilbert's hair.

            "Then don't do anything to make me drop it," Gilbert replies, a challenge. But within seconds he has to set the mug down on the windowsill when Oz kisses just beneath his ear, that soft spot that always turns Gilbert's whole body weak.

            "Why a hurricane, by the way?" Oz asks, guiding Gilbert to lean against the windowsill.  

            "I like the rain," Gilbert murmurs before tipping his head back and humming when Oz kisses his throat. "I used to think about - mm - leaving all the windows open if one ever came, just let it destroy everything in here and leave me with nothing."

             "All of your things would be ruined."

            "I don’t need them." Gilbert's hand rises to cup the back of Oz's head as Oz nips at his throat. "Just you."

            "Embarrassing," Oz mumbles, tasting the sweet skin of Gilbert's neck, feeling his pulse thrum beneath every touch of his lips.

            They stay like this for what feels like hours, holding each other, murmuring. The rain picks up and soaks the back of Gilbert's shirt as it drizzles into the open window. His hair is wet against Oz's cheek as he clings to him, hands slipping under his shirt to feel his chest - his skin, his heart, his scar.

            Their bodies sigh together. The dark sky mumbles with faraway thunder; the air vibrates with quiet, tense power.

            "You're a bit of a hurricane yourself, Gil," Oz whispers against the curve of Gilbert's ear.

            Gilbert hums out a low laugh, fingers stroking the back of Oz's neck. The sound and the touch fills Oz's stomach with warmth, turns his blood hot. The rain drips down the wall beneath the window and pools in tiny little puddles at their feet, but Gilbert doesn't seem to mind, and so Oz doesn't either.

            "Hurricanes cause floods sometimes, right?" Oz asks, stroking Gilbert's hipbones right above the waist of his pants.

            "Mhm," Gilbert hums. His head is tipped back to let the rain soak his hair. He shivers when Oz unbuckles his belt, tilts his hips forward a little.

            "Then that's you," Oz says, stepping between Gilbert's open legs and touching him between them. Gilbert lets out a sound that's both parts quiet and wild, like the thunder rumbling overhead. The rain washes the dust and dirt from the streets. Gilbert shudders, dark and beautiful, moaning against Oz's ear with every pass of his hand. Oz feels reborn every time their bodies make contact.

            When Gilbert comes, rain drips from his open mouth.


End file.
